Ирвин Уэлш - Dead Men's Trousers

— That doesn’t really seem like a recipe for –

I cut him off right away. — Three words: make-up sex. Or is that two?

The boys look at me, and giggle a little. Not in a faggy way, more a what-the-fuck-is-that-embarrassing-old-cunt-saying-now manner. It’s taboo talking sex to youth: they don’t want to envision middle-aged sleazebags banging away. I was the same at that age. Still am now.

— Enough said, I tap my nose, and fuck me, it’s sore. Renton. That cunt .

Ben’s voice rises to an acceptably fey pitch with the wine, and his camp mannerisms become more pronounced.

— That’s it, lads, you can dispense with all the Hollywood closet-case stuff and let it all hang out. I’m straight, but I’m still as camp as a row of tents.

— He is, Marianne agrees, returning from the toilet to slide back into her seat beside me.

— That’s because I was rifling you aw weys, I laugh, enjoying the wine, as she digs me in the ribs. I look at them. — Well, why should you raving buftie boys have all the fun? No offence meant, my bellissimi bambinis !

When they get off the tube at Tufnell Park, Marianne and I have a drunken argument. — You don’t have to try and outperform them, they’re just young lads, she says.

I know that look, and it calls for an olive branch. — You, my darling, are exactly right as usual. I was remiss, please forgive me. I guess I’m just nervous. My boy moving in with a new partner. But he’s a nice lad.

— They’re a great couple, she says, assuaged.

The next day we are off to Edinburgh on the train. The journey is very pleasant; it beats flying hands down. I love the way it gets progressively more beautiful the further north you go.

— Do you think this is a good idea? Marianne asks.

— Not particularly. Richard Branson is a wanker and I hate giving money to him. But flying is such –

— No, I mean this dinner!

— Yes, I insist, thinking about that cunt Euan. A sapling whose weakness led to Danny boy’s sad demise. — I spoke to my mamma on the phone. She’s all excited, I could hear her crossing herself. ‘My-a boy finally settling doon and getting married…’

— But she doesn’t know it’s tae me , Simon. We have history. And your sister…

— Carlotta and Euan are fine now. They’ll just have to accept you, or we won’t be seeing any of them. Simple as, I tell her. — They have to learn that it can’t all be about them, that fucker Euan leaving a trail of devastation with his dick, then going back to playing bourgeois happy families when it suits him… I look her in the eye. — Not on my watch.

— I just wish I hudnae… you know… Her gaze is penitent, as well it might be. A terrible slut, but I really would not have her any other way. — I was so angry with you at the time. She squeezes my hand.

— I don’t care about that… well, only in so far as it sparked off a twisted chain of events, but it was Euan’s folly that messed it up.

Marianne sweeps her hand through her hair. It falls back into place instantly. — But won’t they be freaked out that it doesn’t matter to you, likes, about myself and Euan?

It only matters to me that you shagged fucking Renton . — I’m not a man prone to jealousy. It’s only a ride. I drop my voice as the trolley dolly creaks past. I consider shouting up a Stella, but decide against it. — You’re a hot vixen slag and that sort of wanton, reckless behaviour just makes me desire you more.

She fixes me that ‘I’m game’ look and we repair to the toilet. I sit on the lavy seat, her straddling me, and we’re banging away. Suddenly the door slides open and a chunky cunt in a Sunderland strip stands looking at us, mouth open. Marianne turns round. — Fuck… Simon… I slap the shut knob and it slides back, and this time I remember to press the locking button. The bloater’s intervention has upped the horn stakes and we shit-talk each other into a joint shrieker of an orgasm.

Staggering back to our seats, we regard the rest of the carriage in languid, superior, sex-case snide. The train rolls into Waverley, a little delayed, but I’ve texted Mamma, and we shouldn’t be too late. We jump in a cab up to the Outsider restaurant in George IV Bridge. It’s a favourite haunt of mine when I’m back in town. Great locally produced food, and a friendly but unfussy service.

— I’m nervous, babe, Marianne says.

— Fight through that shit, oh cherishable force. I’m proud of you, doll, and nobody is snubbing or disdaining you on my watch, I tell her. — Bring it on! Tony Stokes!

It’s kid sis who looks up first, as her darling brother walks in arm-in-arm with his lovely fiancée. I’d decided that this would be the best entrance we could make. Carlotta’s eyes bulge in disbelief and she sits in a choking silence. Louisa notices and looks shocked, but almost pleasantly, and her man, Gerry, turns to her, trying to work out what’s going on. Then Euan, doubtlessly sensing the disturbance in the air, glances up from the menu to see us standing above them, about to sit down.

— Cards on the table time, I announce to the aghast company, getting in my seat, Marianne following stiffly, — there’s a wee bit ay history for us all to get past, it might make your hearts go oh, oh, oh, oh… but we’re all grown-ups and we don’t care what the –

— AH DINNAE BELIEVE IT! YOU BRING HER HERE! Carlotta wails, as diners’ heads swivel round to us. — YOU… YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY… She turns to Marianne. — AND YOU… YOU’RE GAUNNY MAIRRAY HIM?!

— Carlotta, please, Mamma appeals, as the shocked diners tut and the maître d’ hovers nervously.

— Sounding gey Bananay Flats thaire, sis, I smile for levity.

Of course, it falls on unreceptive lugs. — C’MON! Carlotta grabs Euan’s hand, hauling him to his feet and pulling him through the scandalised diners towards the door. He looks briefly back, spazzing in confusion, like a lamb in an abattoir, bleating consoling inanities at his wife.

— Typical, I shrug, — make it all about her! I turn to my mother. — Mamma, this is Marianne, the love of my life.

Marianne glances to the door Carlotta and Euan are crashing out of, then smiles at Mamma. — It’s a pleasure, Mrs Williamson.

— I think I remember you…

— Yes, Simon and I went out many years ago.

— Aye, I mind, Louisa smirks, as Marianne tenses up.

— It’s been a rocky road but the path of true love never ran smooth, I declare, summoning the waiter. — Sorry about the fuss, brother, emotional time… I address the table: — Who’s for champers? A wee swally ay Bolly?

— What happened to your nose? Mamma asks.

— A cowardly attack, I tell her, — but it’s all good!

— Well, this is a turn-up for the books, Louisa grins like a demented Cheshire cat with its furry balls caught in a vice.

The waiter reappears with that thickset glass fucker in an ice bucket. He pops and pours to my unbridled delight. — Cheer up! I raise my glass. — There is absolutely nothing bad happening anywhere in this big wide world at this precise moment in time!

On the road, the afternoon light thickens in a gaudy, retina-scorching burst. I take my shades from my shirt pocket, stick them on and floor it, as Vic Godard sings about Johnny Thunders on the stereo. I motor smoothly up the Pacific Coast Highway, the vibrant blue sky clashing with the scrub-covered brown hills. As I head to Santa Barbara, I’m aware that I’m risking it all. Happiness with Vicky, with my dad, trying to build a home over here for Alex.

I was skint anyway but Second Prize has cleaned me out completely. I’ve zilch and my main source of income, Conrad, is as good as away to a big agency. The worthless Leith Heads : fucking Sick Boy and, most of all, that cunt Begbie. I’m not going to beg the Beggar Boy. All I can do is ask. And if he says no, then I’ll offer the cunt a square go. I feel an avalanche of rage gather in my chest. Constricting my throat. Tightening my muscles. My back throbbing in its old spot. We’ll see if the artsy poof Jim Francis is all that’s left ay Frank Begbie. At this moment, I feel the very same way he probably did when I betrayed him: like everything has been taken from me. Well, Williamson fuckin got it, and now Begbie will. And there he is, standing as a man wi a wife and two young daughters, a proper man, in the way he never was back then; one who looks after his family. Like I’m striving tae. But how much empathy does the cunt have? None. Spud’s in the fuckin groond and he couldnae even bother showing up. Never sent a wreath, a caird or fuck all.